


the season of scars and of wounds in the heart

by Rabenherz



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crack and Angst, Deacon has a past, Flash Fic, Gen, Gift Fic, M/M, Nostalgia, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenherz/pseuds/Rabenherz
Summary: Christmas really must have been something, pre-war. He’s seen pictures of the parades and tables laden so heavily with food it makes you want to dive in and retch at the same time. Still, must have been something. Something evil controlled by an overreaching government, most likely, but as far as Deacon can tell from old books and magazines the entire affair might have had enough of a real sparkle left in it to really mean something to people.Like recently married couples with small kids.Fuck.
Relationships: Deacon/Male Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	the season of scars and of wounds in the heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BannedBloodOranges](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/gifts).



“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

"Same to you, T-man! And a happy New Year."

Sensors whirring, an uncomprehending Takahashi waddles to take the next customer's order, parroting the same old line. Ever since he first stumbled into Diamond City god knows how many years ago, Deacon's fingers have been itching to take him apart, to reach inside and feel for loose wires and burnt out circuits. Fixing a Protectron's voicebox would have been all too easy a lifetime ago, but these days Deacon is too preoccupied with other things. Like the noodles he is slurping down with ravenous eagerness. Carbs drowned in stale mirelurk oil - what more could a man possibly want to be happy?

Besides, they’ve got Tinker Tom for the grime and oil business. Deacon gets his hands dirty in other ways.

"God bless us everyone," he mutters darkly, dropping two caps into the tip jar on the counter. The dish is not as spicy as he'd hoped, but at least the bowl warms his hands nicely.

Deacon hates Boston in the winter. Then again, as far as self-imposed purgatories go he hardly could have picked a better scene than the Commonwealth. Class-A gray on gray misery - would recommend! Even the multicolored lights strung all over the city to mark the season appear nothing but drab to him, and the chill seeps into his pores and turns his bones to lead.

With a final, futile wave goodbye to Takahashi he finishes his noodles and makes himself get back to work. The guard helmet feels heavy when he straps it back into place, but at least it will keep his ears dry as he re-emerges into the drizzle. With a grunt he shoulders his rifle, glares at some random citizens behind his sunglasses to get into character, and returns to walking holes into his sneakers ‘patrolling’ the city.

A stakeout in Diamond City is as good as a vacation. Whenever he needs to tune in to local gossip, or follow some poor fucker trying to be swallowed by the crowd, all Deacon needs to do is roll up to the gate and ask Guard Captain Fluke if she’s hiring. Rita’s known him under the alias of Dean Carrero for years, and is always eager to shoot the shit and toss a couple of caps his way when he’s in need. His Spanish is terrible and he is only actually ‘working’ a quarter of the time, but the poor old girl wants to screw him badly enough that it doesn’t seem to matter. Best way to work, Deacon thinks, casually nodding to little Sheng Kawolski as he passes the lake, is the kind where people know you without knowing anything about you. Much better than in Bunker Hill, where he’s got to pull a new persona out of his ass every time he so much as farts by.

But his current mark has been a good little tato so far. Apart from that rather interesting little excursion up to Fort Hagen and the seemingly endless trudges to backwater settlements, he’s mostly been oscillating between Sanctuary Hills and Diamond City these past two months.

Deacon can’t blame him. He would like to get his bearings, too, if he woke up after a two hundred year nap.

That ought to be enough to make anyone cranky.

In a futile attempt to warm up a bit, Deacon quickens his steps, walking loops around the city while he waits for the mark to conclude whatever business he has at Valentine’s agency. It's best to keep a safe distance on this one; snoops mean nothing but trouble for people like Deacon. Crying shame really, old Nick and he may have some stories to trade otherwise. Back in the day folks always used to say Deacon had a soft spot for machines. All the better that he's let himself fall in with the railroad lot, really, even if the working hours and compensation make it feel a bit like martyrdom.

The day is fading fast this time of year, and through the cracks in haphazard shack walls Deacon can see people he half-knows lighting lanterns with their families. He'll imagine tomorrow morning there will be mutfruit and nuts pouring out of holey stockings. It makes him chuckle to himself. Parents these days really should thank their lucky stars that their little critters won't know that pre-war brats got whole working Giddyup Buttercups and holotape players on Christmas morning.

Finally there's some sign of life at the agency. Not daring to get much closer, Deacon takes the opportunity to loiter at the end of the street by lighting a cigarette. He takes a drag, and lo and behold - the golden boy emerges. Even at a distance the slump in his shoulders is unmistakable.

Strangely gratified that at least the mark is in a bad mood, too, Deacon blows smoke rings until it feels safe to follow at a distance and toss the butt into a puddle. 

It's a short and disappointing walk to the guy's lodgings, but at least there just about enough people on the street that tailing him is almost no effort at all. Casually leaning against the shack wall by a window, Deacon takes the excuse to light another. It's Christmas, after all.

The cigarettes are cheap local crap, laced with lord-knows-what by an enterprising Bobrov, but the burn in his lungs is almost welcome. The cigarettes have to stand in for a whole lot of vices these days.

There is a fair bit of shuffling, but soon the only sound emerging from the hovel is a holotape recording of The King himself mournfully crooning his best shot at Silent Night.

If nothing else, at least the mark has taste.

Feeling bold, and not a little frustrated at a workday that turned out to be a whole lot of ball ache for nothing, Deacon eventually ventures to turn his head and peak inside.

The room beyond is all but empty, save for a rickety chair and the single bed where the mark lies curled up beneath drab covers. There’s a paperback in his lap, but it is momentarily abandoned as the poor guy just lies there with his arms wrapped tightly around himself.

On the whole Deacon’s not super great with the whole empathy business. He likes to think that his engagement with the railroad counts as taking classes, with Stanley Carrington of all people providing a strangely good moral compass, but more often than not he still does “The Good Thing” because it is part of a mission rather than out of a genuine need to help.

But this… Deacon gets this. It probably helps that he’s spent a very enlightening afternoon reading up on every former inhabitant of vault 111, but still. If Deacon had just lost everything he knew and loved he’d be bummed out, too, especially if he was then surrounded by a colorless version of a beloved family holiday.

Christmas really must have been something, pre-war. He’s seen pictures of the parades and tables laden so heavily with food it makes you want to dive in and retch at the same time. Still, must have been something. Something evil controlled by an overreaching government, most likely, but as far as Deacon can tell from old books and magazines the entire affair might have had enough of a real sparkle left in it to really mean something to people.

Like recently married couples with small kids.

Fuck.

Poor guy.

The cigarette has burned itself out against Deacon’s fingers, and he crushes what remains of it underfoot. With one last glance at the mark he pushes his hands deeply into his pockets and walks away.

His gait is more Deacon than Dean now, and a little bit someone else entirely. Someone who isn’t welcome anymore.

Something like a lifetime ago he might have fixed a poor old bot because he could, or tried to cheer up a handsome stranger on a cold night. He was a bit of a sucker for a pretty face, once upon a time, but now he’s made an art out of not noticing broad shoulders and kind eyes.

Deacon stops near the town square for another cigarette. Most shops have closed up early for the holiday, with only the bots and a few guard colleagues about town. It’s when Deacon seeks shelter at Takahashi’s stall again that he notices that some brave person has attempted to dry their laundry on a line between two windows and forgotten about it. Everything must be soaked right through in all this rain. Between shirts and more regular garments dangles a pair of sodden longjohns.

A little drunk on misery and nostalgia, Deacon stares at them for all of fifteen seconds before he has made up his mind.

Fairy lights reflecting in his faceplate, Takahashi stoically watches him rub out his cigarette butt on the counter.

"I know what you're thinking, T," Deacon sighs, unclasping his helmet and hiding it among the robot's cooking supplies. “And you’re right, I’m a sentimental old dog.”

In some situations mastering the art of the quick change can be a lifesaver, and Deacon considers himself both an artist and a grandmaster. It’s easier when there are more people around, but fuck it, the low light is on his side, and this is only for a joke besides. Determined, he strides across town like some almost invisible force, applying make-up and fake hair with well practiced ease.

Less than ten minutes later he knocks on the shack door, adjusting the pillow he hastily stole from Percy’s stall. The waterlogged red longjohns cling to him like a second skin, but fuck it, Deacon’s been freezing ever since he stumbled into Boston all these years ago.

The mark opens the door, and up close he really is something special. Taller than Deacon, for one. Not that that one’s hard.

He might have been crying, but at the sight of Deacon those red-rimmed eyes widen in surprise.

“Hohoho, Mr. Dickens. Season’s greetings,” the accent Deacon’s rolling with is all The King’s, and so is the black pompadour wig he happened to have in his bag. Sometimes you just gotta work with what you got. If what you've got is King Santa, well, then Christmas is about to be all the merrier. 

“I-” The guy looks him up and down, before finally huffing a breathless laugh. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Easy,” Deacon drawls, shouldering his way inside. “That you’ve been a good boy and left the cookies an’ brandy out for me-”

* * *

By Boston standards, the next Christmas is a little less miserable, and considering that the Switchboard went the way of the Dodo early in the year, that really is saying something. It does help that Deacon’s not on a mission this year, and that Des has allowed all grounded agents to share some food and whiskey by the heater. Not that Deacon drinks much these days, but it’s the thought that counts. He’s been nursing the same bottle of flat beer since their little party started, but has been careful to synchronize his level of slurring with Tinker Tom and Glory. Wouldn’t do to seem like a party-pooper, even if it’s a little true.

Stanley keeps shooting him disapproving little looks, but there’s nothing new there. Deacon winks at him behind the sunglasses, pretty sure that somehow Carrington will know and be suitably irritated.

“So,” an arm falls heavily around Deacon’s shoulder, and if Adam ever gets this close to anyone he really must have looked a bit too deep into his glass. There is a little spark of mischief in his eye, and damn if Deacon isn’t glad that the Barbara story still hangs fresh between them. A man might forget himself around his hopelessly pretty widower friend without made-up stories of dead girlfriends to hide behind.

“So…?” Deacon echoes, leaning in and taking a sip of his beer to avoid doing something stupid like licking his lips.

“I was wondering when you’ll break out the Santa suit this year.”

“Heh.” Deacon doesn’t do sheepish, as such, but he is glad for the relative dark of their new HQ. He hooks his arm around Adam’s shoulder in kind, and stirs him back to the small crowd of celebrating agents. “Not that I know what you’re talking about, buddy, but if I did, I’d tell you it was a one time thing. Can’t have people thinking that I get off on spreading cheer and goodwill to unsuspecting citizens.”

“No, you’re right, that would be terrible.” Adam’s smile is all sparkle and warmth, and Deacon, guiltily, just about catches himself thinking: _Baby, one day I’ll show you the lights._

**Author's Note:**

> The "gas station present" equivalent of a gift fic - quite literally mostly written this morning before I had to rush out to get to a Christmas lunch on time, and not beta-read because it's a present for my beta-reader. "The Mark" is Adam Dickens - her "significantly improved backstory" Sole Survivor.  
> I will come back to clean this up later, but in the meantime: Merry Christmas.


End file.
